by Woody McCree
The grate of a shovel in sandy soil,
The soft thud
Of earth tossed from heap to hole:
Return to your mother,
Return to the earth.
The decaying leaves settle into the ground,
Forced loose from branches
By the last full freeze
And the sprigs pushing outward
To replace them.
In this slow and gentle rustle,
You nestle,
Pressed down
Beneath the weight of dirt heaped over you
Like an ancient Celtic mound.
The clover bloom
As you make your home
In the deep damp,
Companion of the glossy brown.
But know,
A sacred oak shall grow here,
The moonlit axis
Of a great stone circle:
You shall be a tree again one day.
Woody McCree is a professor of religion and philosophy at the State College of Florida.